Both Sides of The Face
I learned your laugh before I learned your silence.
Now silence sits in your old chair
and won’t tell me where you went.
They said “be strong” at the funeral.
I was. I carried the casseroles,
I signed the papers, I smiled for photos.
Nobody saw my hands shaking
under the table.
On one side of my face, the tear never dried.
It lives there now, in the corner of my eye,
a quiet tenant. It knows your name.
On the other side, your jokes still land.
I catch myself grinning at nothing
and remember it was you.
You would hate how sad I am.
You’d call, tell me to eat,
ask if I’ve opened the windows lately.
So I do. I open them.
The curtains move like breathing.
That’s how I know you’d approve.
Grief isn’t the opposite of love.
It’s love with nowhere to go,
so it paces the house.
It waters your plants.
It keeps your side of the bed cold
so you’ll have room when you come back.
I’m not okay. I’m also not broken.
I’m both. I’m the person in the photo —
eyes wet, mouth smiling.
Sadness and happiness,
living in the same room,
sharing the same face.
Because you taught me:
you don’t stop the rain to see the sun.
You let them happen together.
So I do. For you.
I wear both.
And I keep living —
You taught me the truth:
grief and joy share a heartbeat.
I let them beat together.
One face. Two weathers.
All yours. All mine.
©oriole_b
R